


golden bird

by sinequanon



Series: telling tales [6]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-11
Updated: 2017-10-12
Packaged: 2019-01-15 20:46:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12328566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinequanon/pseuds/sinequanon
Summary: This is the tale of a bird who becomes a boy, a curse that isn’t really, and happily ever after.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a cross between two fairytales: “The Nightingale” and “Beauty and the Beast”.
> 
> This was not meant to be posted in two parts, but I started rewriting some things during my final read through yesterday and I changed enough that now I have to rewrite the ending, which probably won’t happen tonight. I’d rather give you guys _something_ today than give you the entire thing late. Expect the second half either tomorrow or Thursday, and I apologize for the delay.

The Argent Castle was one of the most beautiful in the world, but it was nothing compared to its garden. There were the most extraordinary flowers to be seen in the garden, many rare and exotic, and the envy of all. Every detail in the garden had been most carefully planned, and it was so large that even the head gardener was unsure of precisely where it began or ended.

Perhaps even more glorious than the garden, however, were the creatures that dwelled within it. Beings of all sizes and shapes called the garden home, filling it glorious sounds and colors that rivaled the blooms themselves. More than one visitor to the palace had come hoping for the opportunity to wander the grounds, yearning for a glance at one just one of its residents.

At the edge of the garden was a sprawling forest which extended to the deep blue sea, which was deep enough for large ships to sail right under the branches of the trees. Among these trees lived a nightingale, which sang so beautifully that people would abandon whatever they were doing just to listen to the sound of its music.

As it so happened, King Christopher had a young daughter named Allison who was very ill and in poor spirits. A visiting diplomat had heard the nightingale's song as a child and had loved it so that he resolved to bring the creature to the princess that she might feel better.

So decided, he went through the forest and out into the sea to find the nightingale, and ask it to come and sing for the princess.

"My song sounds best among the trees," warned the nightingale at the request, but it went with the man willingly when he heard of the little girl and her plight.

The king did his best to prepare the palace for the arrival of the nightingale, but he soon found that the bird did not care for such things; it ignored the gold and sweets set out for him and went immediately to see the sick child.

The nightingale rested gingerly on the girl's bed and began to sing. It sang more beautifully than it ever had before, and tears came to the king's eyes; the song’s notes deeply touching his heart even as it saved his daughter. In short order, Princess Allison opened her eyes and forthwith declared the bird her first, truest friend. The king was so overcome with gratitude that he gave the nightingale a special charm to wear round its neck, that the people of the kingdom might always recognize him, and pay him the respect that was his due.

The girl recovered quickly, and soon was spending all of her time in the gardens with her new friend. As time passed, the princess grew ever more fond of the nightingale, and wished for a way for him to live with her in the castle. Though the nightingale ever enjoyed his time with the princess, he was loathe to leave his garden. The princess was tricky though--in the way of small children with teary eyes and trembling lips--and the nightingale eventually conceded to living in the palace for a time, much to Allison's glee.

Thus, where there once was a bird, there was now a little boy under King Christopher's care. His name was Stiles.

As time passed, Princess Allison and Stiles understood one another well, and became like siblings. From their childhood on they were inseparable, and the older they grew the fonder they were of each other.

The castle was full of joy and children's laughter, and the land with it.

<> <>

Now, Queen Victoria loved her daughter very much and, though she was exceedingly grateful to the nightingale for saving her child’s life, she was unimpressed with his human presence at court. He filled Allison’s head with tales of knights and dragons and fairies, and the Queen worried that the bird-made-boy was a distraction that her daughter did not need, particularly with her husband's father Gerard lurking in the shadows. Given the opportunity, Gerard could destroy them all so easily, and Victoria was prepared to do everything in her power to prevent that scenario from coming to pass.

She found an orphaned noble boy named Jackson and brought him into their household as a new brother and companion to Allison. Jackson was everything that Stiles was not, and yet rather than replace Stiles in Allison's affection, the three of them formed an unshakable bond that carried them into their young adult years.

As the children grew older, the King traveled often, but he always made sure to bring gifts home for the three he considered his children. Though Allison and Jackson asked for various things--a soft shawl or thick book for Allison, a warm cloak or sharp knife for Jackson; new sweets for the both of them--Stiles always made the same request.

A single flower, preferably red, not unlike the ones growing in his garden.

It was often Stiles’s request—simple as it was—that was the most difficult for the King to fulfill, as he was often in talks and meetings, shut up in the stone walls of whichever township he happened to be visiting at the moment. More often than not, Christopher found himself plucking fresh flowers from the meadows on the roads to and from the castle, unwilling to gift Stiles the dull, already-wilting buds the market vendors sold.

Stiles was always exceedingly grateful for the blooms, and it made the king clutch him all the more tightly at the thought that the young man didn’t truly belong with them.

At the end of one such trip to a kingdom quite far from his own, Christopher happened by a large castle, set back into the wood, and surrounded by a garden almost as magnificent as his own. The flowers were numerous and breathtaking, and Christopher had already dismounted and reached for one before he thought better of it.

No sooner had his fingers touched the bloom than a bolt of lightning shot through his body and a voice cried out behind him, "Who gave you permission to take that flower?”

The man spun in alarm, and saw a huge, growling man-like beast staring at him from a few feet away.

Now, Christopher was a king, brave and true, but the sight of such a beast surprised him so that he cried, “Forgive me, Sir, but I do this for my son. You have so many, surely you will not miss one?”

The monster stepped a few paces closer, until Christopher could see the strange glint in its eye.

“And do all of your children recommend such thievery?” it asked.

Despite the situation, the king couldn’t help but smile a little at the thought of his beloved children. “No, the other two are much easier—“

“As you have three children,” the beast interrupted, and Christopher jumped at the sudden lack of space between them, “you shall bring me one in recompense for your crime against me."

Christopher’s heart lurched at the thought. “I can’t—“

“You can,” the beast snarled, angry once more, “or the curse upon us will fall on you as well.” And with that, he vanished into the garden.

The King returned home with an ache in his chest and the memory of the strange flowers burned into his mind. If they were cursed, as the man-beast claimed, he had to think of the rest of the kingdom, even if doing so broke his heart.

He gave his children their presents, but the three of them, ever inquisitive as they were, noticed the change in their father and pestered him until he told them about the castle with the beast and the cursed flowers.

Allison and Jackson both volunteer to go the castle, much to Victoria's dismay. Instead, the Queen decreed that Stiles should be the one to go, since he was the one who requested the flowers, and Stiles--though he was distraught at having to move even farther from his tree--agreed.

A few days later, the bird-made-boy says goodbye to his adoptive family, and set out for the unfamiliar castle.

<> <>

Almost three days later, Stiles reaches his new home. It is somehow both more and less imposing than Christopher made it out to be. It is easy to feel the magic permeating the grounds but whether that magic is for good or ill, Stiles can’t yet say.

The inside of the castle is as still as the outside is beautiful. There is no sigh of the beast. Stiles moves through the castle carefully and deliberately, but he sees nothing, save fleeting shadows out of the corners of his eyes, and hears nothing, save the distant whispers on the wind.

Eventually, he finds a bedroom—covered in dust, but suitable nonetheless—and claims it as his own. It’s window overlooks the unusual garden below, and Stiles finds himself taking comfort in the scents of the unfamiliar blooms as he drifts off to sleep.

Stiles remains alone the next day, and the next, and the one after that, and he finds his days settling into a particular routine.

In the mornings, he wanders through the castle and grounds. He finds rooms filled with opulent treasures—some cared for, some not—and Stiles decides that though he still hasn’t seen anyone, surely there are others to help care for a castle of this size. He finds meals ready for him in the kitchen, and clothes in the wardrobe when he needs them, and a large library to amuse him, but he wishes that his hosts would show themselves.

The only bright spot in this unfamiliar place is the gardens. They are lush and vast, and they help ease the ache of homesickness that often settles in his chest. Unlike his garden, which grows mostly wild, many of these blooms have been carved into statues and mazes and other unnatural shapes that somehow still seem to fit with the strange and exotic plants that contain them. He supposes that has something to do with the nature of his hosts, but considering he can’t find them, he never has a chance to ask. More and more, Stiles finds himself falling asleep among the blooms, until he hardly wants to return inside at all.

<> <>

One day, after a fortnight of solitude, Stiles is startled awake from his usual nap in the gardens by the sound of great howling coming from the castle. Night has fallen, and most of the windows are lit, highlighting the silhouettes of people that Stiles has yet to see. It is interesting to see, here, outside, the evidence that he is not alone, but it doesn’t bother him as it once did. He has found a lovely spot between two large bushes with sprawling indigo flowers, and though it is not his tree, it is a good place to settle.

Another distressed howl cuts through the night, and Stiles is torn between burrowing deeper into the flowers or going back to the castle to find out what was causing such a disturbance.

Despite his burgeoning curiosity, he wants to stay in the garden, full of so much more life than dusty, empty halls. Unfortunately, his human body needs more sustenance than the blooms supply, so he makes his way back to the castle in search of food, all the while keeping a wary eye on the figures in the windows.

It would not do to be attacked by a wolf without cause, after all.

As he draws nearer to the door, he watches one of the silhouettes vanish from in front of a window and stop (with a surprising amount of noise, Stiles thinks) in the front foyer.

He tries to appreciate the fact that his hosts seem ready to show themselves—he really is quite curious about the beast Christopher spoke of—but he mostly despairs that if they _are_ werewolves, as Stiles suspects, this curse of theirs must be very fearsome indeed.

After all, why else would they hide themselves from him?

The door swings open before he has a chance to touch it, and Stiles has to hide his smile at the wide-eyed faces of a dozen people in various stages of transformation, staring at him from the entryway.

“Hello,” he says pleasantly. They continue staring, but he supposes that he looks a mess with so many leaves in his hair. “Is everyone alright?”

“You came back,” a little girl with dark curls says, smiling shyly at him from near the back of the group. “Uncle Peter thought you ran away.”

Stiles frowns, because nightingales are always true to their word, and he would never think of leaving before his time is though. “I promised to stay, didn’t I? At least until the new moon,” he adds, because lovely garden or no, he still needs to go home eventually.

Someone gasps, and more than one person's head cants toward a man half-hidden in the shadows. He is large, and snarling, and Stiles thinks that this must be the beast that got him into this mess.

“You will stay as long as you are told!”

Stiles rolls his eyes at the presumption. “And I suppose you shall eat me up if I do not?”

The beast—werewolf—pauses at this, clearly caught off guard, and the rest of the room vacates in an alarmingly quick fashion. “You know what we are?” he asks lowly, but Stiles is not worried because he’s fought any number of creatures for his tree at home and werewolves are no threat to him.

“Of course,” he shrugs. “You are hardly the only werewolves in the world, you know.”

“We were cursed!” the man snarls again and honestly, why?

“There are much worse things to be than a werewolf,” he assures him, when the other man shows no signs of calming. If they didn’t understand how to be werewolves, though, it could explain why they were all so antisocial and grouchy. “Have you been losing time, or foaming at the mouth, or eating creatures best left uneaten?”

The werewolf blinks. ”No?”

“Well, then, you’re perfectly normal for your kind and I’m not sure why you’re worried. If you were going to hurt someone you’d likely have done it before now.” He grabbed the werewolf’s hand and began pulling him toward the kitchen. “You seem surprised. Let’s eat dinner, and I’ll explain.”

Things improve in the castle after that first dinner together. Stiles teaches them what he knows about werewolves, and they absorb everything he tells them in short order. Suddenly, Hale wolves are almost constantly watching him, feeding him, following him. The children--Laura, Derek, and Cora--delight in stalking him through the castle and randomly jumping out at him. The alpha’s sisters like to accompany Stiles during his walks through the garden, and her husband often seeks Stiles out in the library, armed with countless questions about the supernatural.

Peter is the only one who does not seek out the younger man, at least where Stiles can see him. Unlike the rest of his family, Peter continues to snap and growl at Stiles, until the nightingale lures Peter into the garden one day and leaves him deep in the heart of the maze.

It takes the werewolf hours to find his way out again.

Afterward, Peter continues to watch him, but it doesn’t feel the same as before. Now, there is a glint in the beast’s eyes that makes Stiles feel flush and slightly nervous at the same time.

Stiles thinks he might like it.

Two nights later, Stiles dreams of his tree in the water, and singing while the brilliant flowers wave in the breeze. It’s as wonderful as he remembers, but he pauses to take a breath, and when he opens his mouth again no sounds come out. Instead, he watches in horror as the flowers around him wither and turn to dust. He tries to scream...

Stiles jolts awake to the gentle press of hands against his skin. The room is dark, but he can smell the flowers in the garden below, and it comforts him almost as much as the low voice in his ear. “Close your eyes,” it whispers, and Stiles does.

He wakes up alone, but he is not surprised.

Peter and Stiles rarely interact during the day, though the curious and assessing gazes between the two are enough to get most tongues wagging. They meet each night, by some unspoken agreement, until Stiles can barely fall asleep without the scent of flowers heavy in the air, and the press of a warm body at his back.

He never once turns to look at the man sleeping beside him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I said up top, you can expect the second half of this either tomorrow or Thursday, and I apologize for not getting everything out today. For those of you who read my Bleach stuff, it _will_ be posted tomorrow.
> 
> Thanks for reading, and I promise to get to all of the comments ASAP!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m not really satisfied with the ending to this; I might add a bit at some point, but it’s through for now. The last thousand words or so are unedited, so feel free to point out any glaring mistakes.

Months pass, and though Peter is greatly moved in Stiles’s affection, the nightingale can no longer tarry from his tree and his garden. He thinks of his dream with the withered flowers and he shivers; he longs for the smell of the deep blue sea.

The family cries at the news, but Stiles is resolute. He can delay no longer.

“But what about the curse?” Peter asks, though the spell has not stood between them for a long while, and would have no effect upon Stiles regardless.

(It occurs to Stiles then that perhaps for all the times that someone followed him around the grounds or into the garden, they had not seen him for what he was. Stiles chides himself for the oversight: they have ever seen him as a man, and have not yet learned how to look _beyond_.)

“You cannot be both bird and wolf,” he explains, and so removes the charm from his neck.

There is no grand reveal. There is no nightingale suddenly sitting at his place at the table, but the air shifts just enough that an unfamiliar scent—ocean and moonlight—fills the room, and those that are looking directly at Stiles in that moment can see a glint of gold, and the gentle rustle of feathers on the breeze.

Peter is staring at him as if he has never seen him before; it reminds him of the way tiny Allison had gazed at him as he was the most glorious thing in the world.

For a moment, Stiles wants nothing more than to stay.

That night, while the two of them lay together in the moonlight, the werewolf whispers the truths that he struggles to say in the light.

"I think I could never be happier if only you would stay, and promise never to leave me.” His fingers dig into Stiles’s arms, and his breath is hot on the back of his neck.

Stiles shivers, suddenly grateful that Peter cannot see his face. “I promise to return to you, but I have a great desire to see my garden, and I have not sung in so long that I scarce remember how to do it. I _must_ go.”

"I don’t want you to leave,” the werewolf says, so lowly that Stiles strains to hear him. “But I would rather die myself than harm you. If you don’t return, I think I might just wander into the maze, and never find my way out again.”

"No. I must see to my tree, and my garden, and sing its song, but for all that I love my Allison and my Jackson, there is none who I love so much as you.”

The next morning, the two of them stand together at the window overlooking the garden. Their fingers touch—just for a moment—before Stiles pulls away. His hand moves instead to the charm around his neck, which he passes with great care to Peter.

Stiles folds the charm into his wolf’s hands, and considers. “Keep this for me while I am away, that there will always be a part of me by your side.”

He steps away, but the memory of Peter’s eyes on him remains with Stiles all the way home.

<> <>

Stiles can ever hear the stirring of the leaves, smell the sweetness of the flowers, and feel the caress of the sea breeze as he grows closer to his home. The garden calls to him, and it fills his heart with joy. The dreams of withered vines and ash recede until Stiles’s memory is filled instead with the faces of old friends and bright sunshine. He will stop to see his family soon, and then, he will be _home_.

<> <>

Peter keeps Stiles’s charm around his own neck at all times, even when removing it would be more convenient. He spends most of his time in the garden, watching the flowers bloom, and the rest of it running in the woods with his family.

His fingers trace over it so often that his sister teases him, claiming that he will rub the metal to dust. Peter pretends not to hear her, and doesn’t move his hand.

Eight days after Stiles’s departure, Peter notices that the charm has changed. His siblings tell him not to fret, but he notices his nieces and nephews giving him increasingly worried glances as the days pass, and the charm only grows darker.

On the twelfth day, the charm is as black as coal, and Peter cries out as it burns against his chest. He doesn’t dare remove it, though, as it is his only link to his love.

“I must find him,” Peter gasps, flinging the arms not holding the charm outward blindly. Someone grabs it and squeezes his hand.

That night, Peter dreams of a beautiful bird surrounded by magnificent blossoms, and it sings with such beauty that the flowers sparkle around him.

He wakes up to the taste of ash in his mouth and tears in his pillow. He runs.

He runs and runs and runs, all the way past the Argent Castle, through the garden, into the sprawling forest which extends to the deep blue sea (deep enough for large ships to sail right under the branches of the trees), until Peter somehow arrives at the nightingale’s tree.

It is empty.

Fearing that his beloved is no more, and exhausted beyond measure, Peter falls down at the base of the tree and weeps.

<> <>

Stiles wakes up on a boat that smells of ash and blood. It is quiet and dark, and a fire crackles softly in the corner. He remembers that he was on his way to the castle to meet Allison and Jackson at one of their favorite picnic spots for a late lunch, but that someone else had been waiting for him instead.

He thinks of the rage on Gerard’s face when their eyes met and hopes that his friends aren’t hurt. His human skin itches, and he can hear the wind whine outside the cabin.

“I can hardly believe that my son had such a treasure as you, and chose to give it away to those _dogs_ ,” Gerard fumes, muttering under his breath about arrogant nobles while checks the bindings on the man’s wrists. Stiles remembers him vaguely, from when he and Allison were children—the King always did his best to keep the two of them away from his father. “And you were stupid enough to let yourself be bound to this form. If Christopher isn't going to take advantage of you, I certainly will.”

It is obvious that the man is ill; his eyes glow with fever, he shakes intermittently, and a strange, black substance occasionally dribbles from his lips. He raves about how the song of the nightingale will heal him.

Stiles does not reply to the man’s ramblings; he is far more concerned with the growing tightness in his chest. He wonders what Gerard intends to do; though he is not trapped in human form as the man seems to believe, any songs he sang now would be more likely to hurt than heal.

There is a reason he hasn’t sung since Allison was small. There is a reason his song sounds best among the trees, around creatures who understand its purpose.

Stiles is not a phoenix to burn brightly, and out, and rise again. He is a nightingale, whose song rises and ebbs with the tides and curls through the darkness like a secret lover. His song is not power and glory, but mystery and the anticipation of the unknown.

Men have died for lack of food and water, all for listening to him sing; it was why he lived across the sea, at the edge of the garden, in his mighty, mighty tree.

It is why he needs to return before the new moon.

Stiles can feel the song bubbling up inside him, waiting to burst forth. He will not sing for Gerard Argent, but he _will_ sing. The trick will be what remains after the song has been sung.

The nightingale wishes that his wolf was with him.

The boat rocks suddenly, violently, and both men are tossed to the side. Gerard’s head  smashes into the cabin door just enough to crack the wood and create a space just big enough for a small bird to get through. In the corner, he sees the spark of fire.

The smell of flowers bursts through the cabin before the smoke has a chance to reach him.

Stiles’s skin itches as it shifts. The ropes fall away.

The nightingale spreads his wings.

<> <>

Voices on the wind tell Stiles of a man lying in vigil at his tree and he flies higher, pushing himself as fast as he can. He passes over sea, and fauna, calling out to long-lost friends below him as he makes his way home. He feels the song within him, now pressing against his throat, but he holds in back a little while longer.

At last, he sees his tree in the distance (a little worse for wear, perhaps, but standing proudly), but it is the beast prostrated beneath it that makes Stiles’s heart catch.

The nightingale lands ever-so-gently next to his love and uses a careful wing to stroke the great wolf’s head. The wolf’s eyes remain closed.

Stiles turns his eyes to the trees and flowers around him (singed slightly at the edges), and he feels more than one curious pair of eyes waiting for him to move.

“Sing,” a tiny voice urges; a fox peeks out from behind a great tree at him. “Hurry!”

With one last glance at his wolf, Stiles flies up to his favorite branch and releases the song that has been building within him. It rolls out of the nightingale like a thunderstorm, tremulous and majestic, harrowing and haunting. It is the tale of bird-made-boy, of happiness and loss and love, and though the future is uncertain, Stiles gives his song (his story) a glorious ending.

The garden exhales once more, and the wolf opens his eyes.

<> <>

At the edge of the garden of Argent Castle was a sprawling forest which extended to the deep blue sea, which was deep enough for large ships to sail right under the branches of the trees. Among these trees lived a nightingale, which sang so beautifully that people would abandon whatever they were doing just to listen to the sound of its music.

  
Among the trees there also lived a wolf, who spent most of his days lazing beneath the nightingale’s tree. It was said that at night the bird and the wolf would turn into men to visit Princess Allison and Prince Jackson, or to visit the other creatures of the garden. And on the night of the full moon, if one was very quiet, it was said that the two lovers were easily seen, embracing each other in the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of this one comes from the poem “Of Mere Being” by Wallace Stevens.
> 
> Next week: a Bleach fic; but there’s a slight possibility that I’ll post the next letter or two of _alphabet soup_ as well.
> 
> I’m pretty much caught up on comments except for those belonging to the amazing RageQueen89 (I haven’t forgotten about you, I promise)! I appreciate every one.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> As I said up top, you can expect the second half of this either tomorrow or Thursday, and I apologize for not getting everything out today. For those of you who read my Bleach stuff, it _will_ be posted tomorrow.
> 
> Thanks for reading, and I promise to get to all of the comments ASAP!


End file.
